Hunter's Moon
by Avery
Summary: Something evil has its sights set on Magus . . . something that could take away the last thing keeping him sane.
1. Prologue: Hope Fails

**Prologue: Hope Fails **

"No . . ." The whisper echoed throughout the stale air inside the Ocean Palace. Magus dropped to his knees beside the remains of his sister, paying homage to the grisly, lonely alter, and bowed his head. "Schala . . ." 

The dusty pile of purple rags and bones did not answer, but his red-violet eyes caught a twinkle from beneath one of her robes. Her Dreamstone pendant, not dulled in all the years it had slept, sparkled briefly as he snatched it from the place where her neck must have been. Or perhaps she had taken the pendant off? Magus couldn't tell, her bones were in jumble, probably the result of underwater earthquakes. Lavos was still just getting back to sleep, in this time period. 

With a face that barely registered the grief that ate away ate his mind, Magus twisted his body around, refusing to look at the last remnants of not just a beloved sibling, but a culture, a race, a way of life . . . and of Janus. 

_'If only I had found you sooner.' _He thought. _'Then, maybe, you would have lived.' _Something in the back of his mind chided him hotly. Dimwit, she had been dead too long. Even in the residue of magick that surrounds this place, a body could not decay that fast._ 'Couldn't it?'_ He retorted. '_The Enlightened never kept around the dead long enough to find out, did they? Face it, you fool, you failed her, she died because you didn't have the will to kill Lavos the first time, and you know it.' _No tears fell from his eyes, and Magus suddenly felt a force of pure self-loathing invade his soul. _'You really didn't care, did you, Magus? Damn you! This is your sister. Your sister! And you still won't let yourself care, show weakness.' _The air was suffocating him. 

The mage had completed his quest. But no old wounds had closed, and had, in fact opened wider. And slowly, but ever so surely, he was bleeding to death 

. * * * * *

A girl whispered things into the darkness of her bedroom obliviously. Mutters of things, snippets of dreams. Dreams of past ventures, dreams of her mother, and her father, and victory. Confused images danced a erratic waltz through her mind, drifting through an inky, oozing blackness without a horizon. She floated along, following . . . following what? Someone up ahead laughed, and began to sing a childhood lullaby in an oily, mocking voice. The girl listened, not afraid, as it sang the same verse over and over.

Sing, sing, sweet daughter,  
mother's coming home.  
And she will have her basket,  
in which she keeps the moon.

The life form was dropping clues behind, like Cinderella's lost slipper. She followed the shards of suggestion, picking them up one by one. They were being dropped by the voice, up ahead. Crooning at her, dancing just out of sight in the black fog. Yes, the key, *that* was the key, the gate key, I mean. Old friends, new times. Wouldn't that be fun, child? You want to have fun, right, child? Yes. Of course you do, grew up too fast, huh? Never had time to play like we will. Oh, what fun we will have. And where they abandoned you, you can find others, always others. Come back to us, use the key anew, old roads still wind through, come, child, find us. We are waiting, the knight is waiting. Please? 

Lucca smiled in her sleep, and giggled. Yes. I'll come and find you . 

Promise? Cross your heart and hope to die? 

Stick a needle in my eye. 

A snicker. Silence, the mind fog thickened, darkened. Then: 

Perhaps.


	2. Chapter 1: The Hunter

(AUGH! Everything but one story on my account got accidentaly *roasted*. Sorry for the repost!)

** Chapter 1: The Hunter. **

Crono stared blankly at the blinking, whirring machine set upon his kitchen table. The box-like object was Lucca's newest invention, just revealed to public eyes (or, at least, his public eyes), and the redhead was a little suspicious about the odds that it would explode into fiery little bits. Lucca herself stood behind the puzzled boy, arms crossed in gratification. She'd burst into his home this morning, ranting and raving about this hunk of metal. 

He gave the contraption a dubious stare, and turned to his best friend. "It's . . . neat looking . . ." He offered weakly. Lucca glowered. 

"Neat looking? Is that all you have to say?" 

He shrugged helplessly, leaned back, and put his feet up on the table. 

At 17, Crono still had the uncontrollable orange-red mop of hair styled in its usual punk spikes, and the same green eyes that seemed to always glow slightly, courtesy of the Lightning Magick granted to the boy by Spekkio three years ago. However, he was considerably taller now, six foot at the least, with wider shoulders, and was more muscular in general. Especially in his arms. The jaw was becoming chiseled, as were his cheekbones, and he had begun to have to shave only about a month after the whole Lavos thing. He had outgrown his old blue Gi long ago, and now wore a new one, tailored to his formidable size. 

While Crono had remained virtually unchanged, Lucca had metamorphosed into what seemed like a brand new person. For one, as she aged, her hair had steadily shifted from dark brown to dirty purple and grown till the short cut now brushed her collarbones. Her form had also filled out, turning her rectangular frame into slender curves, without making her appear 'over endowed'. The girl's monstrous glasses had been replaced by a smaller version, and the headset modified. Clothing was now brown shorts and black tank top, with a pocketed brown vest filled with various tools, gadgets, and who-knows-what else. 

With a swipe of her hand, Lucca brushed Crono's feet off the table, making the teenager yelp and fall backwards with a massive thud. She picked the machine up and cradled it in her arms, satisfied and showing it with a smug expression. Crono flailed helplessly, as Lucca smirked. "Maybe you shouldn't know. I could just not tell you, since you don't seem to care." She remarked absently, flicking her hair back in nonchalance. He glared from the floor, then finally picked himself (and the chair) up. 

"Ha-ha. I'm dying from the humor. Look, tears. Now c'mon, Lucca." 

The inventor sniffed. "Bah." She paused, the nodded. "Fine. But first, remember the Epoch?" 

Crono snorted. "How could I forget? I might be getting older, Lucca, but I don't think I'm senile quite yet." Lucca grimaced, and lightly smacked him over the head, ignoring his pitiful protest. 

"Don't get sassy. Well, remember how we couldn't get it fixed because we never had the parts? Well . . .not all of it was unusable." 

Crono rubbed his head grumbling. "Humph. So, what parts *are* usable, anyway?" 

Lucca grinned. "Oh, nothing really important . . . just the gate generator . . ." 

She let that sink in, hoping he understood the implications. She was pleasantly surprised when he leapt up, grabbing the female gadgeteer by the shoulders. "You don't mean it." 

She brushed his hands away, and smiled, this time warmly. "Oh, I mean it all right. Crono-" She lifted the machine up proudly, its metal covering gleaming in the light from Crono's windows. "-meet the new Gate Key." 

"But, weren't the old gates sealed when Lavos died?" He asked, eyeing the bauble in Lucca's hands with new respect. She wagged a finger. 

"See, not totally. At first, I agreed with everyone else that Lavos had created the gates. But with lots of research, I found that Lavos only strengthened existing ones. The 'Entity' that Gaspar mentioned is the real creator of the gates, at least, I think so. Anyway, the gates were weakened when Lavos died, but not destroyed. We still couldn't use the old Gate Key, but with this, we can re-open at least a Gate to the End of Time, and from there..." She left the end of the sentence dangling, letting Crono's imagination pick it up and finish it in his own way. 

"Hah!" The boy enveloped Lucca in a bear hug. "Finally we can see our old friends! Ayla, Glenn, Robo, and even Tata and Queen Leene! Lucca, my dear, beautiful girl, you are a genius!" If he seemed over excited, it was for good reason. He sorely missed his friends, even, though Crono had not mentioned him to Lucca, the arrogant Magus. But a chance to see them again . . . He turned, and whisked a small pouch off the counter. Lucca poked it. 

"And what's this?" 

"Money." He grabbed the spectacled girl by the arm, and guided her to the door. "We're going to celebrate, my treat." 

Lucca beamed. "Your first good idea in years." 

Behind them, the door slammed. 

* * * * * Behind him, the door slammed. Magus shivered, standing still for a moment and letting the warm Station interior melt the icicles out of his hair. Outside, the wind screamed at the metal walls for sheltering what was to be the everlasting winter's latest prey. Finished warming for now, the blue haired man stripped himself of the only things that protected him from the weather's vengeance: his red cloak and his gloves. 

Without a second glance at the exit, he began walking down the huge, resonant hallways of his home, heading toward his own room. Echoes of his padded footfalls haunted the passageways, adding an eerie, unearthly depth to the building. A door made of gray metal and stone marked the entrance to his sanctuary. It was there, and only there, that he could rest and gather his scattered thoughts, as well as regain lost manna. He was using up his mana to the point of complete exhaustion a lot, lately, mainly because his rations were running out, and he had to depend on magick to keep himself from starving to death. 

Inside his room now, Magus allowed the slightest amount of emotion, disgust, to show on his face. He'd find some way to survive, always did. It wasn't good to start thinking such weak thoughts. Glancing around the spartan room to distract himself, Magus took in its appearance, something he'd do often. It was good to know your environment well. In the corner, a small, uncomfortable bunk. The only other piece of furniture, an open self that held his few belongings: pouch, some tonics, jerky, ethers, and Schala's pendant. Magus found, amazingly, his stoic shell dropping at the sight of the object, allowing his true visage through. Instead of the insolent, stony-faced image he projected, any onlookers would see a tired, lonely man making a tired, lonely appearance. Without thinking, he let his hand wander to his own version of the pendant hanging around his neck. Schala's gift was the thing that meant the most to him, now. 

His sister's remains had been buried 7 days previous, beneath what remained of Mt. Woe. Thinking back, Magus was repulsed at the image of carrying back that last remaining traces of Schala, though at the time, he hadn't been thinking very much at all about anything; except the waking nightmare vision of his sister slowly starving, or bleeding, or suffocating to death, waiting for a brother who would not come. 

Magus sat on his bed, and let his mind wander. The previous train of thought instantly picked up speed. How could he, the Great Magus, ruler of Mystics, Prince of Zeal, ever have been so foolish to believe that there could have been hope for his sister, and, indirectly, for himself? Shouldn't his troubles have taught him by now that the joy was a place barred to him forever? He was, and always will be, the All-Powerful, All-Vengeful Magus, a terror to everyone that existed on this miserable rock. _'Schala, Schala, Schala. Wouldn't you be pleased with your dear Janus now, hmm? A raving mass murderer._' For, in Magus' mind, a murderer he was. A cold hearted killer. A self-serving, cruel bastard. A traitor who wouldn't even save his own sister, he was so blinded by vengeance . . . The glittering, stained blade of his scythe beckoned invitingly out of the corner of his eye, taunting and whispering promises of a world without pain, hate, love. Magus paused, his brow furrowing, before he shook his head. No. Killing himself would do nothing.

_'Except save others from your future deeds . . .' _The wizard jumped, startled by the intenseness of the concept, and the voice that accompanied it. He realized, suddenly, that he was mumbling denials into the empty air. A little embarrassed, even though there was no one there to witness his slip, he lashed out his mind, heaving the scythe into the air and out the door. _'Compose yourself._' He ordered mentally. Immediately, the suicidal fantasies dissipated from his mind, pushed back by more immediate things, like the urge to sleep. 

Magus grasped the idea, casting a low-grade sleep spell so he wouldn't be troubled by trademark nightmares he'd had since he was Janus. He began to drift off, feeling his eyelids grow heavier and heavier till they finally shut of their own accord, and he then, finally, slept. 

* * * * * Krimla was pleased. Very pleased. He was serving Master well, yes, well, and maybe now Krimla would get treat, hmm, treat, like warm meat, treat for good, obedient Krimla. 

** You'll get nothing if you don't keep your eyes on the Wizard, wretch. **

Krimla resisted a strangled whimper that was oozing its way out of his scarred throat, and instead craned his long neck to peer at the sleeping one. Yes. Krimla good. Watch wizard for long time, many hurt-lights, many sweet-darks, too. Wizard no know Krimla there. Quiet, still, good Krimla was. Krimla sure of treat for Krimla, good, obedient Krimla, treat . . . 

* * * * * 

_ 'Asinine whelp.' _Thought Mirven in annoyance. Good slaves were so hard to acquire these days. Even with power like his. Krimla had been a failed experiment, sent to Mirven as a gift to make good use of. The twisted figure had once been a highly intelligent warrior, agile in both mind and body. The mind, unfortunately, would not yield before it could be broken, and then the tests had warped the rest of him, till he was good for nothing but eating and watching, spying. 

Mirven redirected his focus to the image before him of the resting mage. They had been following Janus, or Magus, for quite a long time now. In fact, they'd been on him ever since he'd began his silly quest for his sister, right after the defeat of Lavos. 

*That*, Mirven grimaced, had been their greatest failure to date. Such an embarrassment, actually, that all involved in the Lavos Crusade had been imprisoned in a particularly unpleasant sector of Dimensional Limbo. But, one good thing did come out of it. Magus, the greatest mage existing on that worthless world, had been brought to the Hunter's attention as a possibility. To be truthful, if the damned man hadn't softened up, he would have been an excellent ace up their sleeve, even, perhaps, a candidate for the position of Hunter himself. Unfortunately, he had gone soft, so as it was, the Hunters would be forced to use his Magick in another way: by admitting it into the Vault. 

"Ese." he said, not taking his eyes off the floating ball that held the image of the sorcerer. "Has the amulet been prepared yet?" 

A scantily clad call girl dropped to her knees in front of the Hunter's throne, quivering. "Yes, my Lord." she answered, her voice tight with fear. "Shall I fetch it?" 

"Hmm?" Mirven tore his yellow and black eyes from the hovering image, to the girl curled up in submission by his feet. He was annoyed by the fact that he had to use words on her, but the psychic venom that usually accompanied his telepathic messages corroded minds, and he didn't yet wish to lose such a marvelous toy like Ese. Playthings should be cared for, or they wouldn't remain in working condition. "No, my dear." He answered at last. A slender, tan finger lifted her chin to meet his eyes. Her own, emeralds, dropped in respect. Mirven chuckled in amusement. "Let Azile take care of that. I do wish, however, for my traveling supplies to be prepared. Can that be done for me?" 

She nodded. "Yes, my Lord." 

He dropped her chin, and leaned back into the chair. With a snap of the fingers, the picture of Magus disappeared. "Good girl. Very good girl."


	3. Chapter 2: The Hunted

** Chapter 2: The Hunted **

She focused, vision narrowing until all that existed for her was the target, and the crossbow. The weapon became a living extension, replacing her hands. In an instant, Princess Nadia fired, the bolt flashing through the evening air and embedding itself neatly into the bulls-eye. Within seconds, another joined it, and the Princess lowered the weapon, praying silently that she could go now. She knew that behind her, across the flower and stone courtyard, her weapons instructor was critiquing her shots, weighing their worth. She resisted the impulse to bolt, and clenched her aching hand. They'd been practicing for 5 *hours*. Wasn't that enough torment for one day? 

Nadia's mind wandered back to the months three years ago, when she had actually enjoyed using her crossbow. Now, made into a perfect model of a princess, it was a ritual performed with little joy or importance. Another adventure would have been suitably pleasant, she thought, and turned to face her arrogant teacher. Miguel had been the head general for her father's army, before a training accident had caused him to lose his hearing in one ear. No longer fit for battle, he had been assigned Nadia's mentor, a position he had not wanted, nor enjoyed. And while Nadia knew he blamed her personally for making his life miserable, nobody else seemed to notice. 

"Speed was poor. Accuracy good, though not perfect. And you were holding the damn thing wrong. Again." He sniffed, jumping in again before Nadia could protest. "Really, one would think that a princess could catch on quicker. My, our kingdom will be in trouble when you take the throne, won't it?" Nadia felt her rage coloring her face a deep crimson. God, how she hated this man! 

"I'm sorry, Miguel." she managed to hiss through clenched teeth. "Can I go?" 

"Sorry won't do, princess. And no. I want you to work on your hold again. And this time, if you don't get it right, we'll practice till dinner!" 

She bit back a comment that princess' shouldn't even think about using, and moved onto the firing range yet again, crossbow grasped in a rigid hand. Shit! It wasn't her fault that her first teacher had trained her differently! 

"Princess Nadia!" 

Nadia stopped and pivoted, a wide smile gracing her beautiful features. She was deeply in debt to the guard that was jogging over to the practice range, for interrupting practice. Miguel sneered at the young man, as he pulled to a stop, breathless. She threw her crossbow to the ground, and grinned again. 

"Yes?" 

The soldier saluted and managed to pant out : "Soldier Kapp, Princess." Nadia scoffed, and pushed his arm down. 

"Oh, poo. I hate that formal stuff. So? What's the problem?" She stood back, and placed her hands on her shapely hips. 

"No problem, majesty. Sir Crono and Lady Lucca are here to see you. They're in the throne room now." Nothing could disguise the look of pure joy that passed over Nadia's features. Her whole face lit up in a smile that rivaled the sun itself and even seemed to make the whole courtyard as bright as high noon. 

"Oh! Thank you so very much for telling me!" She jumped into the air in glee, then took off running toward the castle, before Miguel could even utter a statement about missing her lessons. Instead, he scowled dangerously at the guard, who shrugged and returned to his post, unfazed. Princess Nadia had always been a little excitable. 

* * * * *

"Crono!!" The boy jerked his head up, a huge smile stretching across his face, as the princess threw herself at him. He returned to the embrace, and said to the delighted girl. 

"Hello, Marle." 

"Oh, god, lemme see you! How long's it been?" 

Lucca, standing a few feet away, rolled her eyes. "Oh, *days*. Such a very long time. So, you two lovebirds going to have to be pulled apart by a crowbar?" 

Princess Nadia, or Marle, rolled her eyes back at the other young woman, who was watching the whole thing with bemused impatience, then pulled away from her boyfriend. "So?" She said. "Why are you guys here? Anything important?" 

Crono gestured towards the door. "Lucca's got something to show you. And no-" He added hastily. "It won't explode." 

"I feel so loved." Lucca said dryly, pushing her glasses up her nose. Marle giggled, and nodded. 

"All right. Can't you guys give me a hint, though?" 

"Out of the question!" Lucca said, ushering Marle to the door. Crono followed, grinning at the suspicious guards. Once outside, the two lead Marle to the edge of Gaurdia forest, under a particularly nice tree. 

"Why here?" Marle asked, confused. Crono slipped an arm around her waist and grinned. 

"Because, dear princess, we don't want anyone, particularly some idiot guards-" He scowled at the word 'guards' "-to see what we've got." 

"Fine with me." She replied, and snuggled closer, just enjoying his presence, even if she was a bit worried about the odds of some miscalculation on Lucca's part. "Oh, and Crono? You gotta get over that guard thing. They were just following orders when you got arrested." 

He shrugged, as Lucca triumphantly pulled the surprise from her backpack. "Aha!" Marle squirmed out of Crono's grasp, and peered the machine. 

"And this is?" She asked, blinking at Lucca, who sighed and waved her hand dramatically. 

"Ah, the minds of today. This, Marle-" The inventor paused, much as she had done with Crono, and bowed flamboyantly. She dropped to one knee and held the metal box out to Marle, as if offering a sacrifice to some strange, blonde god. The latter rolled her eyes yet again at Lucca's sarcastic dramatics. " -is the brand new, improved, and non-explodable version of the Gate Key." 

Marle, stared at Lucca, then at Crono, her eyes wide. "Oh..." she said, and suddenly leaned back against the tree. "Oh, my. I feel faint. Lucca, please tell me you aren't joking." The addressed looked annoyed, and knocked on Marle's skull. 

"What are you, hollow in the head? Of course I'm not joking. Why would I?" 

The princess felt a smile stretch across her face, and suddenly hugged Lucca, who cried out in protest. "Ohmigod!! This is ssoooo great!!" She squealed, and then let Lucca go. "So? When are we leaving? Oh, I should probably get my stuff, right? My crossbow? And I'll have to tell Father . . .he wouldn't like it if I take off again without telling anyone. Who are we visiting first? Are we visiting everyone? What about . . ." she trailed off as she noticed her friends staring at her strangely. "What?" 

"Um, we weren't really planning on leaving right away." Crono offered. Marle frowned, dismay evident. 

"Well, why not?" Lucca shrugged, her glasses slipping down her nose. She pushed them up with a grumble, then sat on the grass. 

"Seems kinda sudden, that's all. I say we wait for a while. At least until after the Summer festival. You're going to be busy with that, aren't you?" 

Marle joined her on the ground, and Crono followed. "Kinda, I guess. Father wants me to start 'keeping an eye on things'. So I got stuck with the most drunken holiday of the year." She snorted. "Humph. I hate all this responsibility crap." 

"Everyone hates responsibility crap," mentioned Crono, who stretched out, arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Marle fondly smiled, and ran her fingers through his hair. 

"And you would know, wouldn't you?" 

Presently, the conversation floated away from the new Gate Key, and time travel in general, towards more mundane prospects. And, as the warm, pleasant day invaded their senses, spoken words soon drifted out of existence all together. 

*****

The landscape spelled death, not just to him, but to any who ventured to the secluded North Cape. Below, the ocean's gray waves bashed themselves to death against the rocks, and farther out, islands of ice rocked silently with the water. The wind howled like some demented, frozen wolf, whose icy teeth bit through any clothing, and frenzied the falling snow into a white maelstrom. Without magick, he would have long ago succumbed to hypothermia. 

Magus was oblivious to all. He stood on the edge of the cape, lost within some temple of his mind, silently gathering the mana needed for the task ahead. Eyes closed, head down, breathing so slowly that it seemed like he wasn't breathing at all. Inside his body, the magick pulsated, waxing and waning with each heartbeat, defying the cold, denying the strain of blood, bone, and muscle. This much magick in one place, it hurt, but he wasn't about to let pain stop him. 

The decision to leave this time had been made easily, now that there was nothing here left to live for. Schala, Zeal, all gone. There were, of course, a few Enlightened living with the Earthbound, but they knew him as the Prophet, a man who shouldn't be trusted. And besides, their magick was already weakening. It wouldn't be long till it was limited to those non-magick techniques that the populace in the future used. He was the last of a dying, fading grace, the final glory. How ironically appropriate. 

His muscles shook with a thousand pounds of magickal pressure, and a tiny stream of thin blood trickled out of his nose, freezing into red ice on his face. Magus couldn't hold on for very much longer before the tension broke his body. It was already bending. Inhaling a freezing cold breath, he began to chant words that emptied from the mind as soon as they entered. His skin took on a faint, barely visible phosphorescent glow, and a humming pitched high enough to be heard over the wind built in intensity. With a whirlwind of snow and mana, he released the spell, bracing himself as the gate spawned, expanded, and pulled him inward. Without a second thought, secretly pleased to get out of the bitter cold, he strode in. The blue light closed in behind his retreating form. 

*****

Krimla squeaked, and darted back as the bright indigo brilliance streamed forward to engulf him in it's hateful blaze. The prey had called light to help him, some horrible spell meant to burn away Krimla's flesh from his bones. The living mass of muscle and skin quivered, like a stinking lake disturbed by wind, and cried out for his master to save Krimla, help Krimla, oh, oh, hurt-light . . . 

** Follow him, you foolish beast! That light won't hurt you, but remember, *I* most certainly will if you fail on this trivial mission! **

Not even light was as bad as that hurt. Krimla hobbled up, and squealed as the radiance began to pull him forward into the gaping blue maw. He scrabbled, desperately trying to get a handhold in the snow, watching with horror as the white powder just gave my under his clawing fingers. A second later, he'd been pulled in, nothing left. Not even an echo, for he made no noise, his throat closed up by terror. The gate shuddered, and compacted the entrance smaller and smaller, till it finally closed. 


	4. Chapter 3: The Sundering

** Chapter 3: Sundering **

Ayla woke slowly, the musty smell of her soft sleeping furs invading her nose. Kino's hands were gently shaking her shoulders, bringing her up out of dark slumber. She snorted unhappily, and stuffed her face into the blankets. 

"Go way. Too early for Ayla." 

She felt a brush of air on her cheek as her 'boyfriend', as her friend Marle had called him, moved away. He began to speak to her, using soft words. Though Ayla couldn't hear him (he was speaking too quietly), his tone alerted her to the fact that something was wrong in her tribe. Sleep's foggy tendrils instantly gave way fully to consciousness. "Kino?" 

He brushed a dreadlock of blonde hair away from his face apologetically. His eyes were sad. "Bad spirits come again last night, Ayla." Those blue orbs regarded her face. "They take Nimu." 

The woman said nothing, only rose to her feet. Nimu, her best hunter. Father of seven children. Mate to two wives. It was a great loss to her tribe. The 'bad spirits' Kino had spoken of came in the increasingly cold winds, and lack of food for her people. No matter where they went, or how many herds the followed, death stalked close on the Ioka's heels, never satisfied jaws snapping up many unlucky tribesmen and women. For 11 seasons, her people had been traveling southward, seeking the heat that had fled from the north, losing the tribe person by person. 

Until her scouts had returned with stories of a green place, a safe place, and (most importantly) a warm place. Within days, her tribe had settled in well, and by now, the previously malnourished Ioka were eating and living much as they had before Lavos fell. 

That's why Nimu's death was such a worry. 

"Take Ayla there." Kino nodded and submitted to his mate's request, waiting patiently as she hurriedly dressed, then pulled back the leather covering over her their hut's doorway. Outside was cloaked in a silvery morning mist that obscured the other homes, and the damp, chilly air raised goosepimples on Ayla's arms and legs. Towering above the valley camp, normally blue-gray mountain peaks were painted gold by the rising sun's rays. Already, whispy feathers of clouds hung demurely in the sky. It would be a beautiful day, a rare sight in the past few seasons. Ioka children, awake too early for their parent's tastes, played openly on grass knolls and in dirt pathways, rejoicing in the coming of summer that such wonderful weather seemed to signify. It saddened the woman chief walking among them that death could snatch someone away even under these circumstances. 

Nimu's hut was large, decorated with paintings done in animal fats that had been mixed with the rich red clay found by the river, giving the appearance of being rendered in blood. They depicted animal spirits, mainly bear, kilwala, and wolf, to give anyone that slept in the shelter their power and grace. A pen on the left of the structure housed several domesticated deer, and a near-wolf (her friends had called it a dog) was splayed across the ground near the gate, tongue lolling. 

Beside the door, Nimu's eldest son and his two wives waited in solemn silence, eyes red from crying. Ayla nodded her condolences to them, and Tisai, the elder wife, approached. She explained how yesterday, he had been healthy as usual, even planning a new hunting expedition with three other tribesmen and women. Nothing had been wrong last night, either, not when she went to his bed, nor when she left it. Then, when she and Jaylen (the younger wife stepped forward at this point) brought him morning's meat, they'd found him cold and stiff under the blankets. 

The son shivered, and grasped the bone charm around his throat. "Bad spirits here, Chief Ayla. No hurt on Nimu. No blood. But still gone away. What else take him?" 

The chieftess had not uttered a word this entire time, and she didn't now. Instead, she entered the hut, leaving Tisai, Jaylen, Kino, and the boy. She felt warmth wash over her; embers still glowed in the cooking pit. No, he didn't not die of the cold. Up ahead, the lump under the brown furs indicated her head hunter, and she strode forward without hesitation. Her friends had feared death, she hadn't understood that. Why be scared of a dead body? It was nothing except a shell. 

Lifting back the blankets, she turned him over, looking for any wounds or signs of struggle. Like the boy said, there was nothing on him, no mark on his bluish skin, but Ayla did notice the look of fear in his frozen face. His eyes were wide, though unseeing, and his mouth gaped open, tongue grotesquely swelled. He had died in terror, apparently, yet she could not see anyway that a beast could have killed him. And, if the home had been invading by a creature, the village would have been woken by his screams, and the barking of the near-wolf outside. 

She pulled away and exited, glad to be out of the death-stench that hung cloying about the inside of the hut. For the first time, she spoke, and it was primarily directed towards her mate. 

"Kino, tell Ioka about Nimu, then find four scouts to watch village. Ayla not know what take Nimu, so Ioka need to be very careful next few days. Okay?" Kino nodded, and jogged away, presumably to find someone with a loud voice that could summon the tribe to the new meeting place. The blonde woman then turned to face the other three, her eyes sad. "Ayla will send Ioka out to gather wood for fire, if Tisai want." 

The offer was answered with nods, nothing more. She stood silent for a moment, then the chieftess turned her back and left quietly, leaving the mourning family alone with their dead. 

*****

The castle's stone glinted in the light of the half moon. Dark shadows lent a strong contrast to the silver, etching ominous patterns on the crumbling masonry. The building was in bad shape, barely recognizable as the grand structure it once was when he had held lordship over it. The left wing, Slash's bit of the castle, had completely collapsed. Standing silently on the black path leading out of the woods, Magus supposed that, should he take one step inside, the whole place would come crashing down on his head. That would either kill him instantly, or bury him inside till he suffocated. 

The thought was pleasing, and a hint of a smile warmed his features as he unceremoniously yanked open the gate. The metal screeched in protest, grating on his sensitive ears, making him grind his teeth. Exhaustion may have dulled Magus's senses, but pain of any sort still persevered through it all. As usual. 

At the main door now, he paused. Gloved hand running down the side of the wood and stone, unconsciously feeling slight imperfections, even through the leather, aimlessly stroking the door. Mind elsewhere. Remembering how this castle used to be. Or, to be perfectly honest, remembering how his bed used to be. It was a nice bed. Feathers. And the kitchen, with food whenever you wanted it, just call up an imp, give him a little zap if he wasn't fast enough . . . not moving any more. 

He was slumped against the wall, drifting off into sleep. The mage pulled himself up and shook his head, trying to clear out the haze that had settled in, then pushed open the entrance. Inside was coated with dust, ages of dust, or it seemed like it. Cobwebs in the top corners, but not many throughout the actually castle passageways, and the ones that did exist were old, falling apart. Flea's extermination spell had worked, then, still did. She'd hated spiders. Or was it He'd? Magus had never asked, never cared to know. 

Not moving, yet again. This time, he had just stopped, and was waving on his feet. He'd been walking for ages through these halls. Eons. _'Then why-' _argued a more alert section of his head, _'-are there only five paces between you and the door?_' The thoughts fuzzed, he was losing his balance, falling asleep right here on the floor. How wonderfully princely. Good to see you'll always keep your dignity, eh, Magus? 

A last thought flickered dimly: forget dignity. 

*****

_ 'And on that note . . .' _Thought Mirven with amusement. He floated less than 5 feet away, about an inch above the dust and stone, monitoring Magus's thoughts, preparing for the Sundering. His cloak fluttered in a non-existent breeze, and strands of black hair, strangely metallic, did the same. His right eye sparkle gold, while the left was nothing put a pool of wet black. His face was bony, and angular, highlighted by the moonlight that stole through the castle windows and under the hood of his cloak. 

Krimla had followed the mage through the gate, to these decrepit ruins. Not surprising that the wizard would come back here, actually. The fool had too much pride to go to the Last Village, and where else would he otherwise go? Mirven had pretty much known that this was his destination from the beginning of Magus' plans to leave that cold cesspool of a time period. In fact, the Hunter could've just come here in the first place, bypassing the use of his pet. 

Speaking of which . . . 

** 'Krimla. You've done well.' **

He waited patiently for a reply, feeding of the pleasant pain that came off in small waves from his lackey's mind. While his he did not speak with telepathy with his girls back in the Vault, for fear of corroding their thoughts, he had no qualms about using his hateful messages on Krimla. There was, in actuality, no true thoughts to destroy. A blank slate, wiped clean by his superior before being put into the Hunter's possession. It was only fitting that he should be given the slave, he'd been the one to capture the warrior, and bequeath upon him at least half of the mutilations Krimla wore. The rest was dealt to him by higher powers. 

The simple pleasure of an animal began to trickle warmly into Mirven's head, followed by an instinctual need for the hunt. Krimla understood in that basic way. A mission completed means rewards of the best kind. Blood, meat, food. He smirked, brushing back his hair, and gave consent. 

** 'Go out and catch yourself some stray child, pet. Just remember to bring me back a piece.' **

Apparently, the creature needed no further encouragement; Mirven heard a whisper of leaves outside as Krimla raced away into the forest. When the yellow-eyed Hunter had finished with the Sundering and execution of the mage (which might last for weeks, he'd been granted permission to have a little fun this time), he would bring the beast back with him to the Vault. 

Magus stirred, sending up a miniscule cloud of dust, and bringing unseen eyes back upon him. The Hunter reached beneath his blood red cloak, and let his sensitive, damp fingers run over the blue stone pendent hanging around his pale throat. The necklace was made specially for this task, and this task alone, it was an exact replica of the two that the Zealian man owned. There was yet another copy of the Dreamstone pendants, back in the Vault, just in case this one was damaged or flawed. Better to be safe than sorry, really. Mirven smiled cruelly, and lifted the amulet out of the silken folds, laying it now exposed on his chest. Time was wasting. He wanted to start the party. 

*****

** 'Wakey wakey. Time to get up, dearie, or you'll miss school. ' **

Pain, horrible and demanding. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before; not because of it's intensity, since Magus had felt worse before, but it's peculiar type. A rebellion in his mind itself, like he was poisoned. The voice and the accompanying agony jolted him out of sleep with force, making Magus smash his head on the stone, further dizzying him. He tangled in his cloak while grappling for his scythe, and stood awkwardly, trying to get the cloth away from his legs while searching for the malicious presence that had woke him. 

The wizard swiveled on his heel, his ruby eyes scanning every shadow, cobweb, doorway, window, and inch of the room, yet he could see nothing. Frustrated, he added a little magick to the search, now looking with his aching head, too. 

** 'No, no. Mustn't do that.' **

This time, Magus snarled, holding a clenched fist to fist forehead. Weak knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and his thoughts blurred. The scythe was dropped, landing with a sharp metal ring next to his feet. The words were in his head, echoing, coming back each time with an aftershock of violence. 

"Where are you?" Magus growled, eyes dancing beyond his raised hand. An awful, surreal quiet permeated the room, dropping down like an iron curtain. He could hear his own quick breath and thundering heartbeat. Everything else had been smothered by the hush, even the crickets and other night animals. Magus suddenly had a dreadful feeling, like he was the last thing left alive on the planet, so deep and profound was the silence. He involuntarily shuddered. 

If he didn't make some noise, he'd go insane. "Where are you?" He asked again. 

This time, he was answered. A titter of amusement, actually physically heard this time, echoed of the walls. Magus was somehow reminded of his dead sister, and thought of what she must have looked like while she was rotting. He choked at the vivid imagery, and, in response, the presence actually laughed. Then, it appeared.

The air in the corner rippled. Something, vague and hazy at first, began to come into sharp focus. The blue haired man, seething with anger, tried to move towards his gleaming weapon not a foot away, but found himself glued to the spot, unable to move anything but his eyes. The image stopped wavering, and Magus beheld a man of very strange appearance. 

His face was drawn and hollow, as white as snow, almost translucent. One eye was the color of finely polished gold. The other sent shivers down the mage's spine. Black, wet. Glistening. Captivating, in a sick fashion. Magus had to exert all his willpower to draw his own red eyes away. 

The man's hair looked almost like wire, the way it glinted. The robes he was draped with gave the impression of being soaked in blood, and were held closed by a intricate brooch, black metal in the shape of a rose. At the bottom, the Magus could a *tail*, sharply tipped. And the whole of the man, the thing, was floating above the floor. 

Despite the evilness the stranger reeked of, his voice was melodic. "Hello, Magus. I'm here to kill you and spatter your blood all over the walls in an artistic fashion. But not before driving you insane with images of your dying sister and stripping away the very thing that makes you, you. Sound fun? Any last words?" 

Magus blinked. 

*****

Mirven regarded the stupefied wizard with delighted glee, and fingered the pendent again. He let himself drift gently to the floor, and pulled down his hood, casually flipping his hair behind his shoulder, and watching Magus under hooded eyes. A smile, friendly, pulled the corners of his thin mouth upwards. 

The initial shock having worn off, Magus swiftly leapt backwards, scooping up his scythe, bringing it up defensively. The Hunter, reaching inside his robes and grasping the gem, laughed. "Well, *that's* not going to do you any good." He pulled out the necklace, exposing it to the dusty air, and Magus's astonished gaze. Not that he looked particularly astonished, mind you. The mage held commendable control of his reactions. Mirven couldn't wait to break him, to watch him lose all that. 

So amused was he, the black haired man actually giggled childishly. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Who are you?" Magus asked evenly, only his stiff posture betraying his illusion of apparent indifference. His eyes kept flickering to the stone around Mirven's neck.

"Erm, I don't think I'm gonna say. Makes it more exciting, you know?" Something unseen hit his victim's knee with force, making them buckle. Magus hit the floor unexpectedly, and lost his balance, falling over. Quick as lightning, Mirven had kicked him onto his back, and rested one foot on the man's chest, magick surpressing the rest of his body. 

*****

Magus furiously tried to move, yet found himself pinned more effectively than being pressed under 500 tons. Only his chest rose and fell. He felt instant, powerful detest towards the intruder wash him in a red wave, staining his eyesight. He tried striking the stranger with his magick, but that, too, was arrested. Feeling helpless, and hating it, the man glared at his attacker. Wishing he could send the unknown man hurtling into one of the cobblestone walls. Wanting to take that foot pressing arrogantly, almost casually against him and rip it right off his leg. 

As if he sensed his thoughts, the stranger's eyes narrowed maliciously, and he dug his heel into Magus's diaphragm, pushing the air out of his lungs. Mirth curled the corners of his thin lips upwards. 

"Well, then." The red robed man's remark was nonchalant, but held a hidden excitement and menace. Magus, fighting off the first cold fingers of fear and panic worming their way into his skull, tried again desperately to move his pinned limbs. A premonition of something very bad was whispering in his ear, as if warning him this was his last chance to stop it from happening. "Let's get to it." His assailant raised the replica of Magus's pendant, which swayed back and forth as is trying to hypnotize him. Like dawn tainting the sky a cool blue, so it now began to glow hungrily, with a light the original Zealian pieces had never possessed . The air seemed to grow heavy, and humid, making it hard to breathe. Even harder when his breath began to quicken, apprehension sending adrenaline soaring through his veins. A sucking noise, slow and voracious, filled up his ears. 

And then, everything ceased to exist, except the pain. 

Every nerve was alive with molten fire, white hot and burning away the room, his body, and everything in between. It gained instant control over him, he was just a puppet of the torment, leaving him without true thought. Screams tore the air into delicate ribbons, yet he was not aware of them, could not even hear them. The spell holding his body to the ground came off, and he writhed, back arching, rapping his head sharply against the stone floor with unreal force, yet he was not aware of that either. What was any pain before and since, compared to this? This surpassed even the title pain, it was perfect agony, the way the gods had surely first designed it. He curled up into a ball, gripped his limbs with all of his strength, leaving darkening bruises in his fingers' wake. Insanity hurried forward to protect what would be left of Magus, yet was held back, blocked by a foreign presence, as was unconsciousness, as was death. 

And it stopped. Without warning, like it came, it came to a brutal stop. Magus gasped for air, sweet, yet burning oxygen filling his lungs with every trembling breath. His heart beat against his chest with such power, he was certain it would crack his ribs. Sweat sparkled on his bruised arms and legs. A more sinister, sticky wet coated the back of his skull and the floor near his head. His mouth was paper dry, and tasted sour, like old bile. 

Fighting the stinging and aching that pulsated in his bones, he managed to push himself to his hands and knees. The simple action dizzied him and made his eyes sting and water. His hair was plastered to his blood and sweat soaked skin. 

"Feel it yet, rabbit?" 

The stranger's smooth voice hid knives that stung Magus's ears, and he winced. Feel what? The marrow-deep throbbing? Wearily, yet hatefully, he glanced at the other man through strings of his wet hair. His look of loathing seemed to be lost on his subject of attention, who just sighed in annoyance, arms crossed carelessly over his thin chest. 

"Oh, dear, you haven't. Well." Another sigh. "Think boy. I know you can, I've seen you do it. What's different? Gods, this is taking all the fun out of it. . ." 

Think? Magus never wanted to think again, but he had a feeling that his tormentor wasn't just toying with him. Forcing his thoughts to assemble into some kind of workable pattern, he went down a mental checklist, ragged breathing punctuating the silence as he moved down it. Legs, arms, fingers, toes, eyes, ears, all there. What could be missing? What could-- 

His heart stopped 

--could . . . be . . . missing . . . 

No. No, never. Impossible. 

Fighting back panic, something he'd never had to do before in his entire lifetime, Magus tried casting Dark Matter. Nothing. Black Hole. Nothing. Even Fire 2. Still nothing. 

His magick. Not just repressed, like it had been when he had been pinned down. Not drained. Not made inaccessible, as if he was a little child again, unable to do things that he had been his birthright. No, just gone, completely. Magus was empty, a shell of useless flesh and blood, devoid of any and all powers. 

And then, bending to the misery, he gave up. 

*****

Oh, it didn't get any better than this. Mirven watched Magus slump to the ground, giving up. Strength drained from him. The mage didn't move, didn't make a sound, just despaired. And Mirven absolutely *wallowed* in a warm, hazy glow of sweet victory. 

Grinning widely, like a lollipop-laden toddler, He strode over, delivering a sharp kick to his victim's side. Magus hissed, but did nothing. Did not attack. Mirven jovially grinned. "Oo." He said, sympathetically. "That must've hurt." He kneeled by the still form, waving a hand in front of the prone face. "Yoo-hoo, anyone home? Planet to Magus?" 

He snorted with laughter at the unresponsive man. Think your sister felt like this when she was dying? Empty? A loser?" 

Blank expression. 

"Oh, but I'm sure she didn't feel that way when she thought of you. Bet she felt hate, then. Hate hate hate. Filled her up, made her strong, let her last a little bit longer. Hate for the Prophet, Zeal, and you, dear Janus. Abandoning bastard." 

Blank. Mirven was getting annoyed. He'd never been patient, and wanted results to his taunts now. He laid down next to Magus, and rested his head in his gloved hands. 

"Bet she fucked Dalton." 

The fist was unexpected, and Mirven reeled backwards, howling with fury and pain, holding his nose. Black, thin blood ran down over his snarl of a mouth. Like a shot, Magus was to his feet, and running, having a enough sense left to know to get out of there. The Hunter, angry, tried to get to his own feet, but slipped on smeared blood from Magus. He smacked his face against the stone, further damaging his nose, and angering himself beyond reason. Sight tinted red, he leapt to his feet, and dashed to the gaping castle door. 

The night was empty and silent. Magus was gone. Mirven had lost him. 

"*SHIT!*" 

Next Chapter: New Character! Frog! Blood! And nekkid Magus! ^_- Heh. Review, please . . .


	5. Chapter 4: Distant Thunder

_Author's notes: Yay! Finally finished a new chapter . . . I hope you all like it. A big hearty thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to Dawn Wilkins, for being the first person to give me feedback on this story. _

Oh, hey, I'm on the look out for a Beta Reader . . . anyone interested?

And, to protect my butt, Mirven, Krimla, and Anna are all mine. Everybody else is not. Though I'd sell my soul to own them. Okay? Don't sue me?

C+C is appreciated! Peace! 

** Chapter 4: Distant Thunder**

This summer night was truly gorgeous. Moonlight, a cool, soothing silver, dappled the emerald forest floor with splashes of radiance. It reflected off of the streams and pools of water, and sometimes of patches of translucent fog that lovingly embraced the ground and twisted around the tree trunks. The dark smelled of vanilla and magnolia, and held a gentle fae quality that lent to it's mysteriousness. 

Walking by the silver light, the Knight bodyguard breathed in the sweetness, letting it wash down his throat. One green and brown hand wrapped itself around the hilt of Masamune, though Frog felt no danger. The sword was like a fifth limb- he felt more natural when his palm was enclosed around it's smooth leather hilt, soaking up it's power and majesty and making it his own. 

Frog felt good in these forests, better than he did in all courtly situations (unless the involved Queen Leene). There was a peace here, silent quiet, yet behind that, the sense of bustling activity, and secrets hidden and discovered. Secrets . . . like him. like his identity. 

Frog never let anyone know he had been Glenn, no one but his Queen and his friends. It hurt to much to even consider letting the world know that it was he who failed to save Cyrus. Glenn was a stigma, and insult around the palace. The cowardly boy who ran off after his mentor and hero was killed. The transformed man never said anything in his, in Glenn's defense.

That was the past though. All the past. Cyrus's ghost had been put to rest, Frog's prayers to wake up one morning and find himself once again wearing his human form having gone to the world of the dead along with his friend. He would change back when Magus finally died. At least, he assumed so. He did not think the man would have made a spell that could be so easily reversed as it had been cast.

Suddenly, Frog stopped, frowning. Something had changed about the woods. There was no longer any crickets singing, and smell had gone sour, reeking of sulfur and rotting meat. 

The grip on his sword this time for real, Frog scanned the woods. Something was obviously here. Something nasty and vicious. He could sense it. One thing about being half animal, he inherited a frog's better senses. 

A rustling and wet scrabbling off to his left caught his attention. Some manner of monster that would no doubt be more use dead than alive was feeding, it seemed. Frog unsheathed the sword, it's glow leaving it as its two inhabiting beings realized the need for stealth. He moved forward silently, dodging moonbeams and leafy, whip-like branches. 

Blood glinted wetly on the ground, painting a trail to a roiling, shadowed form bent over a shredded corpse. The beast was snapping it's jaws, bits of flesh and splintered bone hanging out of its teeth. It's mouth was a gaping, sharp hole and its face looked like melted glass. The limbs were uneven, and when it moved its arms he could hear its bones creaking and could see the skin hanging off its muscles. The body below had been male, and young. A child.

The creature jerked its head up and stared at frog with nightmare scarlet eyes, glowing circles without pupils. It didn't move, for a moment nothing moved, and the only sound was the steady drip drip of spattering blood, reverberating in the now seemingly chill air. Then it attacked.

Frog hadn't time to draw the Masamune as the monster tore at his face with its mismatched, nightmare claws, and had to sacrifice his left arm to keep it away from his throat and eyes. The talons cut to the bone, and Frog yelped with pain, hand trying to pull the enchanted sword from it's scabbard. It wouldn't come, the hilt was stuck on his belt.

Spitting curses like a barbarian, Frog jumped back, to avoid another vicious assault. The thing bounced from one leg to another, coming towards him in lopsided bounds, the arms slashing out in front of it, looking for all the world like a sapling tree in heavy wind: lashing, no conscious thought behind it's flailing branches. 

Finally, the blade slid free. Ungodly shrieks accompanied a spiraling form as Frog's opponent leapt away, burned by the bright white light emanating from Masamune. His wounded arm streaming blood, Frog stood tall and straight (albeit shaky) and pointed the sword at the angered monster, making it cringe and move back more. Pressing his advantage, Frog stepped carefully over the gore that used to be a boy, and tried to look unhurt and still strong. But he was loosing a lot of blood- the thing had harmed him badly. 

They seemed to be at a standoff. The creature eyed the Masamune with fright, and hate, shrinking back from every half-hearted thrust, yet Frog knew that if he attacked, the beast would quickly find out that he was in no shape be battling. It was time, it seemed for a spell. 

His mouth was suddenly filled with words, and he whispered them slowly, letting each one cautiously touch the air before the others pushed it off his tongue. The monster took a step forward, seemingly enraged by the words, but Frog waved his sword and fist menacingly, and, hissing like wind from a balloon, the thing moved it's misshapen feet back again. 

Only too late did the half human, half amphibian realize his mistake. The hisses weren't fear, they were glee. The fiend had seen his hurt arm. Had seen all the blood that soaked the armor and cloth around it.

There was a quarter second in between when his opponent sprung, and when Frog moved away, but it was just enough, and as the monster hit the ground beside his shoulder, Frog rolled away, leapt to his feet, and raised his arms to bring a sheet of water crashing down on his enemy.

Suddenly, he slipped. The ground was red mud with his blood, and the victim's. His feet went out from under him in the filth. The animal attacker screamed gleefully, understanding its chance, and leapt atop his chest

Much to his surprise, it then spoke. The words were twisted so badly they hurt Frog's ears, but they *were* words, and the hero's eyes opened wide with stupefaction.

"Krimla do good. Krimla kill. Krimla kill one, kill two now. Get treat? Getting treat." It mumbled, red still frothing over its teeth from its last meal. 

The thing jerked all of the sudden, and it punctured his armor with its claws, digging deep, beneath his skin, between his ribs, heading for his heart. And it *hurt*, it hurt so bad there wasn't any air left, and the only thing he could do was raise the Masamune and hack away. 

Krimla wailed like a banshee with just a touch of laringitus, and toppled off of him, claws sliding out of his chest with a nasty schlep-ing noise. He knew he must have hurt it, and tried to stand, so he finish off the evil thing, but he was getting dizzy and his mouth was wetter than usual. Why couldn't he think strait? And why was there blood *everywhere*, all over him, bright red and pumping? There shouldn't be that much blood . . . . And why wasn't there anything to breath, like all the wind air was sucked out of the forest and locked in a big metal box? Strange thoughts. And why was all scent gone, and then all sight? All he could sense now was the screaming, the shrieking and howling and ungodly screeching that reverberated in his marrow, and then even that echoing noise was fading from view and all of his senses were taken away from him except to the thumping of a drum or maybe his heart in the background and he tried to cast cure but finally, he was gone and never got a chance to finish it.

*****

At first, he thought he was in his old bed in Zeal. The feeling was much the same- warm, comfortable, his haired splayed around him on the pillow and his eyes closed to the morning world. Therefor, he almost believed, when a soothing hand moved some of that hair away from his face, that it was actually his sister come to wake him up and that the whole nightmare of his existence had been a dream. He was still Janus, and this was Zeal, and Lavos had never made his presence know to his world. Go away Schala, I'm asleep still, I don't want to get up yet . . .

Something cool and wet pressed itself against his head, dripping liquid down the side of his face and over his eye lids. It felt good, but confused him. What was Schala doing? Pouring water on his head? Well, she'd tried every other trick in the book to get him up sometimes, why be surprised if she was forced to this--

It wasn't cool anymore. Suddenly, a vile sensation, it turned warm, then hot. A rusty taste filled his mouth, salty and thick and sticky. Blood, it was blood. He recognized it. Where was he? He wasn't laying down anymore, he was kneeling, on the ground. It was cold, and dark. Blind. Reaching to try to make sense of his surroundings, his hands (_bare hands why are they bear open to air filth shock blood_) tangled in something stringy. 

The image, the memory, dropped in front of his eyes like a curtain. Her brown eyes stared at him, glassy and empty, her children screaming at him, hysteric and grieving. His first kill. He remembered now, he'd been 13, stuck the scythe into her chest, as smooth as slicing butter. His face was spattered with her. His clothes were reddened with her. His hands were stained with her. They were tangled up in her wet hair, *truly* tangled; he'd wound his fingers in the strands so tightly, it'd all tuned into a knotted mess, capturing his quivering palms. The blood in his mouth coated his teeth and tongue. It was also hers. She'd put up an admirable fight, yet had not been able to even scratch him. He remained untouched, except by the stark, red droplets, but they were already drying, looking black against his alabaster skin.

His breath seemed to have gotten lost somewhere in his chest, and a world away, a body that might have been his began to shake, violently. 

He remembered the time after that first kill, as well. He'd stumbled towards his room, pushing past a worried Flea, a congratulating Slash, and a whining Ozzie, shoving his way through the celebrating Mystics, the taste of bile threatening in the back of his parchment-dry throat. He stood at the basin of water, washing and washing, scrubbing his hands till the water was crimson from his own raw palms. Till salt tears, bitter, tasting of her blood, dripped down his face. The bile no longer threatened, and, abdominal muscles clenching, he vomited until there wasn't anything left in his stomach, and with one red, wet hand clenched over his mouth he crawled away from the basin, and halfway out the door. Some imps found him about a half-hour later. 

Looking up, suddenly, from his forever stained hands, he saw the dead woman again. Her mouth was slightly open, eyes halfway shut. It looked like she wanted to kiss him. 

He killed her children, too, when he got his weapon out of her breastbone.

******

It was pure revulsion at himself that finally drove Magus to consciousness. Fear was a factor, too, so when the dreams and delusions finally gave way, he found himself reluctant to open his eyes, or give any indication that he was awake. Someone was moving around him, and would periodically wipe his face with a washcloth.

Opening his eyes slowly, he found himself staring into the face of yet another woman. Yet this one wasn't dead. And her eyes were blue, not brown.

He shoved her away, sitting up quickly, ignoring the fact that he was trembling, and the wave of queasiness that accompanied the quick movement. Yanking away several blankets, he tried to stand, get up, out of that strange bed, and *away*. He didn't know who this woman was, or what he was doing in this place. The last thing he remember was running as fast as he could away from the castle ruins, running towards the magic cave that connected the mystic island with the continent beyond. 

His legs wouldn't support him, and they buckled traitorously, sending him latching onto the bedpost for support, another surge of nausea taking his breath away.

The woman went for him, grabbed his arm, and, with surprising strength, pulled him back into bed. She was blushing furiously, and it was then that Magus became aware that he was stark naked. Covering her eyes, she handed him the blankets that he had cast off.

"If you don't mind." She said, with half a nervous smile hidden in her words.

Magus snatched them away from her hand, and hurriedly used them to cover himself, before glaring at the woman. "Who are you?" He asked angrily, eyes blazing. She'd *undressed* him! The nerve!

With a chuckle, she brought her hand away from her eyes, and then sat on the edge of the bed. Magus noticed the a damp cloth was clutched in her hand. "My name's Anna." She offered. "I'm a healer."

A healer . . . he reached up to his hand, and for the first time, realized it was swathed in bandages. "Why am I here?"

Anna the Healer stood , and walked closer to his head, where a bowl of water sat on a nearby small, wooden table, and dropped the rag into it with a small splash. She smiled at him. "I found you unconscious in the woods, with a bruised side, and a bloody head." A pause, as she regarded him curiously, then: "Who are *you*, mystic?"

Magus flushed. Mystic!? He was no lowly mystic, he was a former prince, feared warlord, and savior of this sorry world. He regarded her icily, from the smudge of dirt on the side of her cheek, to the plain brown dress she wore. Obviously a peasant. Why, he had a mind to cast a spell on her just for-

Cast a spell-

Despair, remembrance fell upon him once again, like a flock of vultures, picking away at the pride that had soared in his blood just moments ago. 'Nothing.' He thought. 'I am nothing. I am myself just as lowly as any who fill this filthy planet.' He felt himself slump suddenly, the strength leaking out of him, and fell backwards, hitting his skull against the headboard. Stars frolicked behind his eyelids.

******

"Hey!" Anna slipped an arm under his shoulders before his head could hit the mattress, and lifted him up, hissing quietly as she noted the blood soaking through his bandages. She pushed a strand of brown, curly hair behind her ear, and looked down into the mystic's face. His eyes were closed, tightly, but he wasn't unconscious. "What's the matter?" She asked cautiously. 

He opened his eyes only slightly, and she was shocked to see the rage they'd been brimming with replaced by- by some other emotion. She paused, staring into his eyes for a minute, trying to understand what upset him, before pulling the stranger into a sitting position. "Don't move." She said, concern in her features. "It'll just make it worse." Anna stood, and walked over to one of the many shelves nailed to the rough wood wall, fingers briefly running over several jars of dried herbs, before pulling off one filled with what looked like thin, white wood shavings. She also grabbed a rough roll of clean strips of cloth, to re-dress the head wound. This time, when she reached over to the bedside table, it was to pick up a small clay cup. 

The stranger watched her with unemotional eyes as she first filled the cup with water from the pitcher, add a dash of the stuff in the jar, and then set it aside, before sweeping up the new bandages. He didn't react when she exchanged them for the bloody ones already wrapped around his head, but when she offered him the drink afterwards, he eyed it with suspicion. The bits of unidentified herb had dissolved. "White willow bark." She said. "For the pain."

He said nothing in return, only took it from her hand and downed it in one gulp, all the while watching her.

Anna smiled then, and sat at the end of the bed. "Now." Her voice was soft, but slightly impatient. "Let's try this again. Who are you?"

******

Magus met her eyes. She was leaning against the bedpost, legs off the side of the bed, watching him expectantly, and he felt himself being examined keenly. Maybe he had underestimated her, because her gaze was intelligent, and when she spoke, her words were articulated, and chosen carefully. 

He wasn't sure why he decided to answer her, because it didn't really matter to him if she had a name to call him by or not. Perhaps it was just one of those rare moments of politeness, or maybe it was the fact that this woman probably wasn't going to give his clothes back unless he gave her some sort of acceptable title. So, without thinking, he said the first name that came to mind- "Janus."

"Janus?" Her voice was curious. "Any clue to why in the world you were unconscious and bleeding in the middle of the forest?"

Janus. Why had he said that? "I was . . . attacked. I don't remember much." He lied, and his tone was sullen, words clipped. Anna sighed, and ran a hand through her loose hair. 

"I should have expected as much. You're the third patient I've had this month that has been, and the only one who'll be leaving without scars." She stood up, and moved gracefully towards the window, pushing the rough canvas curtains aside. Mid-Morning sunlight and the smell of magnolia's in full bloom instantly swept the stale air outside, replacing it with the breezy warmth of early summer. "Beautiful day." she murmured, then glanced back at him. "Mind telling me a bit about yourself?"

He frowned, inexplicably suspicious again. "Why?" Anna gave him a brief half smile, hands tying the leather thongs that held the curtains back into precise knots, and shrugged. 

"It's nice to have someone to talk to. Gets only out here." She went back to the table, and this time poured nothing but fresh water into the now empty cup, and handed it to him. Magus took it without hesitation, but sipped it slowly, savoring its slight chill. Regardless of the nasty stuff he'd drunk a few moments ago, his throat felt like sand paper. 

"Don't you have a husband or son, or something?" He asked, glancing at her over the lip of the glass. She laughed, but it was without humor. 

"Oh, good heavens, no. Nothing like that." 

Unusual. There certainly weren't a lot of women in this time period who lived alone, without any man her life. She must have something wrong with her, then. Maybe she was barren? That would probably explain it, females that couldn't bear children were often shunned, had to find other uses for themselves. A pity, really. It certainly hadn't been that way in Zeal. Nor with the mystics. 

Abruptly, he fully realized what she'd said to him earlier. She'd called him a mystic- she'd helped him, believing he was a mystic- all humans hated mystics. Didn't they? Magus examined her once again. She was simply sitting, staring out the window with a sad look in her blue eyes. He didn't see any sign of a concealed weapon, but then, she wouldn't need one, would she? Mentally cursing himself for being so dense as to drink that 'medicine' earlier, and he glanced back into the glass. Fuck, she'd most likely poisoned him.

"Listen," she said. "I'm going to Medina tomorrow to get some supplies. I'm assuming you'll want to come with me?" 

"Medina?" Magus said in shock. '_But, Medina . . . I thought it existed in the future only? It must have been just recently founded, but then how would she know about it? Unless she's part mystic- no, her ears are round, and all half mystics have pointed ears.'_

Anna was staring at him strangely. "Yes . . . Medina . . ." She frowned. "Maybe I should keep you here a bit longer. I can put off the trip for a few days. You seem a tad- confused."

Magus shook his head, even though it made his temples throb. "Er, no, I'm feeling fine. I was just surprised . . . that . . ." He trailed off. She was looking at him with caution, like one would regard a madman. 

"Look," He said tersely "I'm not confused. I've just been living alone for a while. I didn't know any humans had contact with Medina."

"Oh." She shrugged. "It's been about a year since I stumbled upon it. Are you hungry?"

"Er . . . " The quick change in subject made it quite clear she didn't want to talk anymore on the subject. "I suppose. Yes, thank you."

She nodded. "I'll be back in a moment."

******

Lucca wiped her brow with the oily cloth she had at her side. Almost finished. The Epoch sat before her in all it's futuristic, time skipping glory. Damn, it looked good today, as if it knew that its time had come to fly again, and had spiffied up for the event. The new gate key gleamed in it's belly, not yet covered with the grease and grime that coated all the parts around it.

She wasn't sure how she did it, how even she, Lucca the great, had been able to solve the puzzle of making a new Key that would re-open the seemingly closed gates. It had kinda, just *came* to her one morning, as if she'd gotten subliminal messages from some strange source in her dreams. Well, where ever she had got the idea for the plans, they'd worked- and here was the final product, the embodiment of 3 years worth of blood sweat, tears, and one morning of sudden inspiration. 

To say the least, Lucca was pleased. She picked up the metal panel that would cover the guts of the machine, and began to re-attach it, mind spinning with possibilities.

_ Next Chapter- Robo! Nightmares! Medina, murder, Mirven and Magus!_


	6. Chapter 5: Pressure

** Chapter 5: Pressure**

Robo wasn't sure how he was going to explain this to Doan. The sudden breakdown of the power plant wasn't dangerous, but it would be exceptionally expensive and time consuming to fix. And they didn't have all that much money to spend in the first place, with Arris Dome having overspent on this year's budget, so trying to get the repairs approved by the council was going to be a frustration neither of them would rather deal with. His leader was going to go into conniptions, for sure.

He glanced over at the other robot assigned to him for this assessment mission. A newer model than he, made to look more manlike. Well, a little more, at least-- he was still far from appearing human. The robot's ID number was HH-53, and his name was Jacob. And he, as the humans would say, was a major pain in the ass. 

Jacob blipped angrily, the assortment of lights implanted in the control panel in front of him flickering chaotically like fireflies on amphetamines. "Commander Prometheus, it seems the Lithium we shipped in last month was flawed in its purity. We have been- *searching vocabulary databank-- please hold . . .*- we have been gypped. Chancellor Doan will have to be alerted. Shall I also send out a message to the Medina embassy demanding a formal apology for the problem their imperfect export has caused?"

Commander Prometheus. Even after 3 years, the title still seemed strange to him. "No, Jacob. It is not our duty to negotiate with Medina. Let us just fix the problem. I was equipped with a backup supply of Lithium, in case of a dilemma such as this. It should last until we are sent a new shipment. And that's an order." He added hastily. Newer robots, for security reasons, had many restrictions . . . one of which that they had to obey orders from humans, and only humans- except for him. He was, thankfully, considered human in every respect except for the physical. 

Robo's partner said nothing, but his optical sensor narrowed slightly in agitation. The older robot could almost hear the circuits whirring inside Jacob's metal head, battling each other out for domination. Finally, he answered rather grudgingly "Yes, sir."

Robo reached forward and removed the metal plate that covered the tiny Lithium core. It was unexciting, a thing about the size and shape of a flashlight battery, and yet it powered the entire dome exceptionally efficiently. At times, the city had even had so much extra power, it would short-circuit the system. Arris dome had grown fairly rich as a result of selling their excess electricity. Being as important as the core was to both the electrical *and* economic systems, he found it a little odd that no one had tested the thing before it had been installed- especially since the Medians were usually so proud and protective of their exports. This would be a blemish on their record, no doubt. He held the thing out for Jacob to take, and tapped once on a tiny button on his breastplate, opening a compartment with a hydraulic hiss. The secondary core was inside.

"Sir?" Jacob's voice was uncharacteristically quizzical and snagged Robo's attention like a curiosity-coated fishhook. "There is something odd about this Lithium. It seems to be . . . leaking?" 

*****

_ Ancient beauty, primal beauty, bright moonlight beauty. The smell of flowers, vanilla, sweet as a cinnamon roll. So quiet, too, the special lack of hubbub that you could find under pine boughs. Mist like water, opaque and milky. Walking on clouds! How cute! _

It's so pleasant here, so pleasant and saccharine sweet . . . so fake. An illusion. The sky clear, the stars between the blue-green leaves knife sharp, scintillating. Puncturing the eyes, they're so bright . . . look away! Look back down, where the red flows, the bodies three, they lie torn and dead, save one . . . beating heart, heart of a warrior, of a knight, it will not give up. 

Oh, poor little knight-child, frog-child, why don't you stop fighting? Die peacefully, you hurt so much . . .

Molasses thick repugnance, recognition, realization. 

Glenn?

*****

The nightmare dropped from her mind abruptly as Lucca awoke, slipping back into the technicolor abyss where dreams spend the waking hours. Mouth and throat were as tender as a salted abrasion, tasted like one, too, and her face was thick with tear trails. They'd actually fallen into her gasping, murmuring mouth as she slept. The cast away bed sheets were musky with the splinter sharp stench of fear-sweat. She couldn't move. Couldn't think beyond the singular word that was screaming in her head, bouncing off the walls in a desperate attempt to escape past her lips, to be shouted into the unnaturally still and shadow riddled air. 

Glenn!

Glenn was dying, Frog was dying, her friend was bleeding to death in the middle of a candy-coated and blood soaked wooded wonderland, four hundred years before she could do anything to help. 

She quivered, snot and perspiration and teardrops all mingling on her cheeks. No, no, this couldn't be happening. She wouldn't let it happen. The Epoch was ready enough . . . 

Fear and panic yielded slightly to allow a new emotion, determination, into the tormented folds of her post-nightmare mind. Lucca knew that if she just sat by while her friend died alone and unhealed, she would never be able to live with what she had, or more to the point, *hadn't* done. The very thought made her stomach roil with nausea. Sweat still fresh and matting the hair to the back of her neck, she willed her limbs to move, the joints creaking with late night protest. Crono, of course, had to come, and Marle. She couldn't save Glenn alone, and he was their friend and comrade, too. It wouldn't be fair to anyone if she just left them behind. 

The purple haired inventor slithered of her mattress and collapsed to the floor, her hand flailing on her nightstand and knocking over several books in a jumbled attempt to snatch her glasses. She'd end up missing the bridge to the mainland and running right into the ocean without them, and, of course, *that* wouldn't save anybody. 

Moments later her mother, half-asleep and wandering into walls, stumbled into the front room to see why the door had slammed. Concluding that it was just the wind, and mumbling about Taban fixing the latch, she made her way back up the cedarwood stairs and just missed the image of her daughter, still wrapped in her flower studded pajamas (a misguided birthday gifted from her deranged Grandfather) sprinting down the slim path to the mainland, her hair drifting in the moonlight. 

Mercifully, Lara also missed the gentle and sinister way the gloom under her daughter's bed shifted, little whorls of darkness moving in to seemingly fill a space that had a split second before contained something not quite as insubstantial as shadows. And the sweet scent of vanilla, fading off into the midnight ether.

******

Lucca pounded on the solid wood door of Crono's house, her fist slamming over and over like a battering ram on the heavy oak. She'd run all the way here, driven by the insane burning fear for her friend, taking shortcuts through the weeds and briar bushes of the fields outside Truce. Her legs were stained maroon with blood from hundreds of superficial scratches. She paused only a moment in front of the house, to suck in mouthfuls of sunflower scented air, and then began the merciless beat of her palm against the door. By now, she would have bruises on the side of her fist in the morning. 

The loose floorboard in the front room creaked, and the door pulled open to reveal Crono's mother, looking perplexed and disheveled. "Lucca? What *are* you doing here? It must be-" A whisper-quick glance at the falling moon, then deep brown eyes were back on the pitiful looking teenager. "-Four in the morning. And what happened to your legs? Goodness, you look like you've been attacked! But why are you still in your pajamas? Well, what's left of them, that is."

"Hello, Ms. Petosky. Is Crono there?"

"Of course he's here, you silly girl! It's the middle of the night! Oh, come inside, come inside. You'll catch your death."

The older woman pulled Lucca over the threshold of the door and into the cozy, if slightly cramped living room. Across it's polished hardwood floors, the glowing embers of a still dying fire immersed the room in feather-soft golden light, illuminating the modest furniture that was blanketed in the furry, sleeping forms of several cats. Only one awoke as she stumbled inside, blinking drowsily with verdant eyes. The warmth of the house finally reminded her that it was still chilly outside, the below sixties nip of late spring, and that she was wearing naught but a few damp pieces of flannel. "I know it's late- um, early- but could you please let me go up to Crono's room, Ms. Petosky?" She asked, her voice sounding tinny from the aftermath of the mad, adrenaline fueled dash over to Truce.

Crono's mother glared disapprovingly, but Lucca could sense the kind exasperation behind that mask. "Goodness, just *look* at those legs!" Ms. Petosky exclaimed, and disappeared into the kitchen. "Lucca, dear, what did you do? Run through a pit of thorns? Let me bandage them up. Then . . . you can go see Crono." 

Lucca felt a look of relief whisk over her face. The smoldering, pure *need* to see her dearest friend had turned her thoughts inside out, sending her into a untamed frenzy ever since she had awoken from the Nightmare. Finally, with the near guarantee of being satiated, it had faded from her thoughts, leaving only a shell of panic behind. It would be all right, now. Crono could help Glenn. 

The lights flickered on as Crono's mother re-entered the room. One of the benefits of being a genius was that you could give your friends some very useful gifts- in this case, Lucca had installed an electrical system inside the Petosky household. It was the only building on the Northern Continent, save for Lucca's own home and Gaurdia Palace itself, to have such a luxury. 

Lucca let herself be seated, and her legs swathed in white gauze. She barely felt the sting of the soapy washcloth that wiped away the crusted, half-dried blood from the scratches on her legs. And she didn't notice Ms. Petosky's puzzlement at how very glassy the teenager's eyes looked, and the lack of idle conversation and pleasant banter that was always present when Lucca came over to visit. 

"Alright, all patched up-"

"Thank you, Ms. Petosky!" Lucca practically shrieked, and streaked up the staircase, the wooden steps squealing in protest as her feet beat upon them. Crono's mother gaped after the girl, and then frowned mightily. 

"How terribly rude! Even that pale fellow Crono brought around wasn't that impolite!" She muttered.

*****

"Get up, you red-headed moron!" Lucca hissed, shaking her friend's shoulders so hard she briefly worried he might get whiplash. "Up! Wake up!" No stranger to Crono's sleeping habits, Lucca knew she would have to smack his entire upper body on the mattress for at least ten minutes before he at least reached a state of lucidness, and she proceeded to do so as soon as she entered the room. Finally, he grumbled and waved his arm at her, giving a shaky sign that yes, he was returning to the living world . . . in just a minute, anyway. "Awaken, gawddammit!"

"Murphdashnug. Gabeez urkt. Beh?" Crono gabbled at her from behind the thick cotton coats of near sleep. "Cca? Lucca? Wassit? Wha' timis eh?"

"Around four. Get up! It's really urgent!"

"Urgen?" Crono mumbled sleepily, and rolled over, blinking in the moonlight at the silhouette of his friend.

"That's what I said, and that's what I mean, boy. Get your ass out of bed and pack your bags. We're going to the castle to get Marle and then we're going off to 600 AD."

"Say wha?" The red head sat up suddenly, bumping his elbow against the bedpost. "Wha the hell'er you talkin' bout?"

"We gotta go. Now. Like, right now. Glenn's dying, we need to save him, he's in a forest, I don't know where, and we gotta go fuckin' NOW." Lucca hopped from foot to bare, bruised foot in anxiety, her arms flapping and gesticulating. She looked frightening in the window's moonbeams, as detached and delusional- though not as homicidal- as Queen Zeal had been. "C'mon, c'mon!"

The last traces of sleep fleeing from his suddenly dour face, Crono reached forward and grasped her waving arm firmly. "What about Glenn dying?"

"I *saw* it Crono, I was there! In a dream! He had a big puncture in his chest and was bleeding everywhere, I mean *really* bleeding everywhere, bright red arterial blood too! Shit, I think there were two other people too, but I couldn't tell . . . they looked strange. But, anyway, that's not the point, the point is, we gotta go RIGHT FUCKING NOW!" She squawked the last part, leaping into the air with exuberance and ripping her arm right out of Crono's grip. "Now! Nownownownow!" 

"Now wait just a fucking second, Lucca! It was a dream, for Astara's sake-"

"No! It was real! How can you not believe me? Crono, I'm your best friend! You-you always believe me! What's wrong with you?" Eyes wild, Lucca jerked her arm back, fingers crooked, giving the impression that she was going to bring her hand down and rake her dirty nails across his unprotected face. 

"Lucca, you're hysterical! Calm *down*, please, and explain!" Crono rose to his knees, feeling surreal. This wasn't his friend at all. It was like something had possessed her, slipped into her body while she was sleeping and asserted it's foreign consciousness over her iron will. 

"You don't believe me. You . . ." She almost tripped over her own feet in sudden recoil, leaping away from the bed like it had transformed into a venomous viper. "You asshole! Well, fuck you! *Fuck you*! I'll go by myself, and you can just fucking *rot*, you betrayer!" 

"Crono, what is going *on* up there?" Shouted his mother from downstairs, sounding like her patience was wearing mighty thin. "What's all that yelling?"

Ignoring his mother's complaints, Crono dodged forward, leaping off the bed in a sudden strike and grabbing Lucca by the shoulders, swinging her around and switching their positions. She met the sheets with a choked yelp, digging her nails into his strong hands, and immediately turned into a docile slab of jelly, her bottom lip quivering. "What is the *matter* with you?" He questioned, sounding hurt and befuddled. "You're out of your head, Luc . . . what happ-oh no. Oh, no, please don't start-"

The girl pinned to his bed let out an animalistic wail, liquefying into tears and laments and cried of 'Glenn, Glenn'. Feeling horribly guilty, Crono released her from her helpless position, and she immediately went for him, latching onto his chest like a cat gripping a breaking branch. Within seconds, he could feel the front of his shirt growing wet from her weeping. Absolute bewilderment creased his face and his mind, and he awkwardly patted Lucca's back, her violet hair tickling his nose, as he scrabbled for something to say. She, however, beat him to it.

"Oh, damn, oh, what's wrong with me?" The inventor managed to hiccup, talking around Crono's soaking shirt. "Shit, shit, shit, Crono, it wasn't just a dream. It was something else. It was a *vision*."

"Uh, Lucca . . ." 

"Crono." She pulled away from him suddenly, and the redheaded boy could feel his jaw trying to drop. Where there had been, moments ago, a panicked and violent harpy who'd transformed into a defenseless maiden, there was now another new persona, something akin to Magus' stoniest expressions. Lucca's eyes were fixed on his face, but they were not looking at him. He could still see the sparkling tear tracks on her cheeks, but no new salty droplets fell. She was dead, dead but breathing, and the sense of disquiet that had been growing sense he had awoken to these rapid mood changes evolved suddenly into blatant horror. "Crono, we have to go. There is no other option. No other possible direction to take. I'm going with or without you, though I would prefer it if you went." She smiled distantly, weaving back and forth. "You are my friend, after all." She stood smoothly, staring distantly at the wall, and, unhindered, began to leave the room.

"What the *hell*?" hissed Crono under his breath, listening to her disregard his mother's questions, and the slamming of the door as she left the house. Then, as if waking up for a second time, he shook his head, and grabbed his sword and traveling bag.

*****

Marle sat up in bed, clutching the white sheets to her chest in deference to the cold. Her gold spun hair wafting around a pale face, she sat quietly, waiting for the strange noise that brought her awake to sound again. She made quite a lovely sight, sitting the center of the expansive bed, slim shoulders bearing no sign of any undergarment and lips pressed together in a curious pout. But her eyes betrayed the innocent scene- they glinted in the dark, dangerous and cold as glacial ice. 

Tap. Her ears caught the tinny sound and, one hand flicking under her pillow for less than a spilt second, she stood. The bedding followed Marle like a wedding train as she stalked to the window, careful to stay quiet and not be seen by any intruder or monster that hoped to get a taste of the princess. With a sly glance outside the panes of glass, she reached forward with a delicate hand, and pushed the window open just slightly. Cool air drifted through the gap, but nothing else attracted her attention. She waited patiently, hidden in the shadows, for something to bring itself to deadly attention. 

Her waiting was not in vain. A few minutes later, she heard hissing voices from the grounds below her window, hushed so not to attract the attention of the patrolling guards, and a scraping and grunting that could only mean that some idiot was trying to scramble up the wall outside her window with nothing but his or her bare hands. She almost felt embarrassed for the poor wretch, and rolled her eyes in the dark. She hoped feverently that it wasn't another would-be Romeo, come to sweep her off her very rich feet. Bah. That'd be the fourth this month. The fools never seemed to get it through their pretty little heads that she had no interest in them, at all, as in not a bit. Maybe she'd give this one a good sound thump on the head to clear it, and he could pass the message to his colleagues. 

She leaned up the wall, feeling like yawning as the intruder came closer and closer to her windowsill, cursing like a drunk sailor as he cut his hands to ribbons on the sharp stone blocks of the castle wall. Within seconds, the man was right below it, and she stepped forward to make her move, flinging open the window and grabbed the young man by the back of his shirt, dragging him, flailing limbs and all, through her bedroom window. With a thump, she dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor, and drew the knife she'd grabbed from under her pillow out of the billowing folds of the sheets wrapped tightly around her.

"Don't you people ever learn?" She snapped, nudging him with a toe.

"Aw, shit Marle! That hurt!" The black bundle lying on her floor whined. The princess blinked.

"Crono?"

"One would think that their fiancé would be able to recognize them!"

"It was dark, you impetuous fool!" Marle hissed, but the joy in her voice was unable to cloak itself. "So, ah . . . what are you here for, anyway?" She fluttered her lashes. "Not another late night . . . rendezvous, is it?"

"I wish." He replied sourly, and pushed himself to his feet. "But this is a lot less enjoyable. We're leaving. Now, apparently."

The blonde young woman blinked in stunned confusion. "Leaving? As in . . . the *big* leaving? 'Jumping in Epoch and leaving' type of leaving?"

"Don't look at me, it's Lucca's idea. Just between us two, I think she's been drinking those funny purple potions again."

"But the last time we had to keep her lashed to the bed for two days until the ferrets went away!" Gasped Marle in mock dismay, one hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, you can't be serious!"

"No." Crono glanced toward the window, and for the first time the Princess noticed fine lines of worry streaking his face. "But she is acting very, very strange. She showed up at my house wearing nothing but her pajamas, wailing about- about Glenn, about him dying or something. I think she dreamed it . . . but she's absolutely hysterical."

"I don't . . . doesn't she realize it was just a nightmare?"

The boy shrugged, shoulders heaving in tight agitation. "I really don't know, Marle." He bit his lip. "But I do know she's so panicked right now that she going to go 'help him', whether we're with her or not."

"And you'd rather be with her." Marle dropped the sheet and kicked it away towards Crono. "Put that on the bed while I change, will you? And don't you dare blush, you've seen it all before anyway." 

"Um." He replied, fighting the flush tickling his ears. "Right. So . . . you're going to go? Even with the Summer Festival and everything?" He could sense her sharp glance from halfway across the room, and it spoke better than anything else could. "Never mind."

Marle drew her shirt over her head with a silken slipping noise, and adjusted it carefully. "Where *is* Lucca?"

"Outside, guarding the Epoch."

"From what, Shitake?" 

"It was better than having her fly it right up to your window, wasn't it? That's what she wanted to do originally."

"I suppose it would cause quite a stir. Hand me the Valkyrie, would you? It's hanging on the wall over there."

"Your father let you keep it in your room?"

Marle smiled prettily, snow-white teeth glimmering past rose petal lips. "He did after I threw one of my little tantrums." She gave her quiver one last tug, making sure it was secure, and nimbly leapt onto the windowsill, small goosebumps barely visible on her arms. "Let's go."

"But . . ." Crono glanced warily at the thick oaken door to the hall. "Shouldn't you leave your Father a note or something? Marle?" He stared at the empty window, a frown tugging at his lips, and then sighed dramatically. "Well, fine." He grumbled, crawling out after the lithe young women. "But if I get arrested again, you can bet I'm gonna blame you for it, Miss-let's-not-ever-tell-our-parent-who-just-happens-to-be-the-king-where-we're-going-or-at-least-that-her-boyfriend-didn't-kidnap-her!"

*****

He wiped once again at the crusted blood under his nose, staring intensely at the cobblestone wall. Rage, pure and hot as magma, pounded in his sunken temples and blinded him to rational thought. Bastard! Bastard! How *dare* he strike back! How dare he ruin the game, and his attacker's poor, delicate nose! '_Nasty little bugger,'_ thought Mirven vehemently. _'When I get my claws on his pale hide, I think I'm going to make myself a nice new Magus-skin coat. *After* I gut him like a fish, of course.'_ He heaved a small pebble at the wall in irritation. Added to his plight was the fact he'd been sitting and pouting in this very spot for two days now, ever since the escape of his prey, and his butt and tail were feeling uncomfortably numb. 

He reached over and plucked up another stone, this time sending it hurtling *through* the wall. 

Something was direly wrong. 

After the wizard had fled the castle grounds, Mirven had been too upset to try and chase him, and had spent the night jumping up and down and swearing in every language he could think of (and up). In all his decades of being a Hunter, never before had one of his toys dare lay a hangnail on him, let along a full set of knuckles, and he'd been engulfed by hate to the point of complete loss of the thin façade of sanity he previously projected. Spitting and howling like a rabid leopard, he'd been in no condition to try and hunt Magus down. 

Later, after nearly causing the castle to disintegrate around his ears, Mirven had calmed himself enough to sit down and try to locate the miserable, magic-less worm. He could not have gotten very far, anyway- shock and blood loss from his head wound would have taken him down like a poisoned rabbit chased by a pack of wolves. It would not take very much concentration to locate his unconscious or weak form. And yet, no matter how much the Hunter strained to ensnare even a flickering gleam of his quarry, all he found was a void where Magus' mind should have been. There was no logical - or illogical -- explanation for it. Hunters were chosen and trained in part because they were such powerful psychics to begin with, born with the gift to turn minds into little more than sparking slabs of brain. And then, of course, they were conditioned, tortured and twisted until they finally set their sanity free, and were instead filled with the Disease. The loss of basic bodily functions like eating, sleeping, and breathing were replaced by a constant and all-encompassing hunger for the suffering of others. Preferably innocent others. Innocent, virginal others. Or maybe that was just Mirven's personal preference adding its own spice to his programming, he couldn't tell. Whatever. At least they weren't as pitiful as their servant beasts. Speaking of which . . .tail slapping angrily against the stone with a hollow thwap, Mirven snarled, his thin mouth splitting like an opening wound. "I don't want to go search on foot!" He whined, glancing to and fro as if this would help him find his quarry. "Where is Krimla? I called for that dense piece of meat hours ago. I'm never going to find that stupid spoil-sport wizard at this pace."

And then his gut knotted, sending vomit and acid screaming up his throat. Choking and gasping, the Hunter fell to his knees, the dread and terror overwhelming him far more painful then the fire in his gullet. Not now. He hadn't failed yet! There was still a chance!

'She' was checking in.

Body shaking uncontrollably, fangs chattering in panic, he bent in a stiff bow. "Lady." He rasped into the thinning air.

Has anyone ever told you that you're far lovelier when you're groveling in frenzy?

If he had a bladder, he would have let it go under the venom of that terrible, omnipresent voice. It was as tangible as the bars of a bone cage, and as sickly wet as intestinal lining. It clung in the ear, obstructing all other sound save for its own red echoes, and filled the mouth with a taste like bloody crude oil. Mirven retched in response, drawing his bony knees up to his quivering chest as he heaved stinking brown bile flecked with blood unto the floor. 

Delightful. And I see that there is no Magus, or remnants of Magus, ready for inspection. Do you even have a clue to his whereabouts?

Mirven shook his head erratically, tears streaking his face. A very strange sight, considering his tear ducts had long ago shriveled.

No matter. He will not be hard to obtain. Go to the west, he is nearby. 

"You are . . . forgiving my missteps?" The black-haired man asked, voice quavering.

I never forgive. 

The words were sweet, frosted. 

You will kill him no matter what, my little Hunter. When the time comes, I'll send you a pet or two to lend a hand. Since yours has met a delicious end.

"Krimla is . . .?"

He tasted soooo soft, dear love. Melted like butter on my tongue. 

And with that, the hellish presence faded from the room, leaving a jellied mess of a creature curled on the ground, bathing in his own retch and sobbing into the vacant air. 

*****

The morning air was cool and pleasant, filled with the sounds of bees in the garden patch and the impatient braying of a single charcoal mule, ugly as mortal sin but amiable as a honey clover, being hitched to a basket filled cart. Magus leaned up against the windowsill, one hand working a comb through his knotted hair. The bandages around his head had come off at dawn, and instead of the normal, tangle-free mane he barely ever had to care for, they'd left his head a matted mess of blue locks. He'd been working on untangling them since, and finally, just when he thought his poor aching scalp could take no more, it looked like the beastly task was just about done and over with. One last tug and grimace later, he sighed in relief, and let the torturous hair pick slip out of his grasp and to the wooden floor with a light clatter. Across the lawn from his window, Anna cursed as she dropped an extra wheel for the cart on her bare foot. 

"Need any help?" Called Magus, though he didn't really mean it, and already knew what her answer would be.

"You stay right there, you troublesome man. You might have lost your dressings, but you're still in no state to be lifting a bucket of water-" She paused, and rubbed her foot with a scowl. "-Let alone big, heavy, nasty wooden wheels. Stop bothering me and go eat your breakfast, now that you're done primping."

The blue haired man scowled, and recoiled from the window. He'd quickly learned that his benefactor wasn't quite as kind as she'd first seemed. She was a most definitely a true-life battleaxe, with a tongue like a shining blade and a stubborn streak continents thick, hardened by years spent living alone. It was her who'd convinced him to comb his hair, after making several vicious comments involving the local sparrows and nesting time. *And* she'd absolutely forbidden him from traveling with her to Medina, at least this time, because he was still wobbly on his feet. The head wound, it seemed, had been far more cruel than he'd originally thought- almost as cruel as the woman who cared for him. He'd really grown to dislike her in the two days they'd shared in each other's presence, his hate driven the insults she delivered in her surprisingly learned tones. She might be nasty, she might be crude, but she wasn't stupid. There was something about Anna, about her stance and glare and viper words that reeked of royalty. 

He never asked about a male around the house anymore. He just figured none could stand her.

Her suggestion of breakfast did not sound particularly alluring. By now he was sure it was glacial cold, and he knew from personal, unpleasant experience that a chilled eggs and rutabaga does not exactly make the mouth sing. Instead, Magus hauled himself to his treacherously weak feet, careened into the front room and out the door into the lovely summer morning. He was determined to try one last time to force Anna to allow him to accompany her back to Medina, even if it meant making an uncomfortable seat on the pumpkins in the back of her cart. As he approached, grass pleasantly cool beneath his bare feet, the brown haired woman glanced up from her preparation, one eyebrow rising almost to her hairline.

"What do you think you're doing, you silly mystic?" She asked, tone oozing superiority. "Go back inside."

Magus glared back at her. "Madam, I appreciate the help you've given me, but I must insist-" and here he donned his most impressive, commanding tone, so powerful that he could feel *his* knees weakening- "That you allow me to travel with you to Medina."

She stared at him, eyes gaining the exact and distinct glint of well-cut blue diamonds, and replied acidly. "Oh, you *insist*, do you?" 

Magus set his jaw, determined to convince her, to *force* her to take him with.

For Zeal's sake, he was a royalty, a prince among princes, a warlord to be feared and submitted to, a mage with power to- 

'Well, scratch that part.' He thought rather dejectedly, mentally deflating like a skewered blowfish. Anna's eyes bored into his face, laughing quietly without making a sound. Once again, he was beat. Scowling like it could help him gain mastery over his helplessness, he sat down in the grass. The bitch could work around him, because he wasn't moving an inch, thank you very much. It was the least he could do for her, after her callous and rude behavior. He couldn't think of anyone as completely unempathetic and obviously insensitive to other's needs as Anna. Other than himself, of course. 

"Well, then, I'm off." She said, shattering his train of thought with her sledgehammer of a voice. The tall woman was standing over him, blocking out the warmth of the sunlight, her brown curls pulled back out of her face with a strip of leather. This was the first day he'd seen her in anything but a dress, and her traveling clothes were no improvement. They were old, and stained, and in several places torn. "I should be back by tonight, if I'm lucky, and tomorrow morning if I'm not. Don't cause any trouble, and most certainly do not try to wander off by yourself." 

"And how will *you* stop me if I try?" The mage grumbled, eyes slit like a snake's. He had a vague, nagging voice wailing with embarrassment in his ear that he was acting like a child, and it was getting louder and louder. Anna shook her head, and disappeared back inside, yelling out the door after herself. 

"I won't. But if you're not here when I get back, I certainly won't waste any of my precious time looking for you. Just hope you don't collapse- there are wolves in these woods, and worse."

"I am *not* going to get eaten by wolves." He snapped back. He might be powerless, but he wasn't completely pitiful. His scythe had been left back at the castle, but a warlord relied on no weapon alone. His fists were powerful things in their own right, and he knew quite well how to crush a throat or snap a neck. 

"I hope not." His antagonist reappeared, carrying a mysterious bundle of rags almost one and a half times her height. The tatters of cloth were tied on with rough twine, but slipping in places, and Magus got a peculiar glimpse of dark wood and well-kept, polished metal. It looked almost like a spear, and for the first time, he felt his curiosity pique. It might have been a barter in exchange for her healing knowledge that the woman was bringing to market to trade for more food, or seeds, or something, but he found himself wondering if maybe she used it for protection on the long road ahead- though he found it doubtful that the virago couldn't just chase off any bandits with her words. She didn't carry herself like someone who fought; she was strong, but not defined, and her posture was more adapted to carry water buckets than a deadly weapon. But a single woman, living alone on a continent that generally hated humans- it wasn't all that surprising. "I hate to think what it would do to the poor beasts."

Cliché, but bitchy nonetheless. Educated? Maybe. Clever? No. He'd heard better snipes from Slash. Sniffing angrily, he rose, and mockingly bowed. "As you wish, your highness. Come back safely."

"Ungrateful cretin," She snapped, reverentially setting the bound and half-hidden weapon in the back of her cart and standing back to run a critical eye over the whole mess, searching for things forgotten or ill-packed. "You had better be contemplating ways to repay me for my kindness. I'll be back exactly when I say I will, and I expect some sort of payment decided upon by then. Preferably one that does *not* include your further company."

_'Oh, that won't be any problem, believe me.' _The pale wizard thought, sneering at Anna's back as she finally left off circling the cart and pulled herself into the rickety front seat, taking the old and cracking reins in her callused hands. Magus desperately found himself hoping that she contracted a severe splinter in the nether regions from her long and uncomfortable trip.

"Hope you don't starve." She said by way of a farewell, and clicked her tongue at the old, slow mule lazily chewing on the grass. It lifted its gray head stupidly, and blinking like a newborn, began plodding towards the small dirt track that led out of the woods and into the natural fields surrounding Medina. Or at least, that's what he assumed. He'd never known this area well. Before long, the sound of the beast's hooves on the beaten mud was drowned out by the droning of cicadas, and Magus found himself wonderfully, beautifully, and most of all *thankfully* alone.

"_H_o_p_e yo_u_ do_n_'t s_t_ar_v_e." He mocked, making his voice a terrible exaggeration of Anna's rather pleasant tones. "Ungrateful cretin. Hah! Repulsive spinster bitch." He glared at the grass, the trees, the sky, and finally a pair of chickens pecking innocently at the ground, squawking and chasing each other about. "Humph."

******

There was a silence settled over the interior of the hut, familiar but uncomfortable. She moved through it cautiously, not wanting to disturb anything, and pressed the strip of cloth even harder against her nose and lips. The stench of rotting meat permeated everything here, sickly and sweet, the kind of smell that would cling to her hair and the roof of her mouth for days. She knew that Kino would have to continue to sleep outside of their mutual hut, for the pure force of smell kept her lover far away from anything she touched. As the sole being not too superstitious to touch the bodies that were piling up, she was the one to handle them, and bring their bloated forms out of their dying places and back into the fresh air and sunlight. It was a terrible job, and she hated doing it, but her tribe simply depended on her, or else their loved ones would continue to decompose untouched, and without having their souls sent off. 

She slowed as she approached the hulking mound curled up in the corner of the tent; claw-like, skeletal hands were still locked around the rigid legs. The smell grew worse; she gagged, fearing that the combined sight of the corpse and the syrupy fragrance of putrefaction would grow too much to bear, and she would collapse herself, retching into the dirt floor of the hut. The family had been too frightened to enter the hut for several days, and had refused to tell Ayla, for fear of seeing the contorted and bloated body. The deceased had been a popular young woman of about ten and five years, beautiful and ripe for marriage. Her most favored suitor had died three days ago.

Fighting back the vomit that was staining her mouth the flavor of rancid Poi, she tugged at the hands until the finally gave way, leaving the upper half of the corpse free to flop backwards, seeming as if the girl's silhouette was only fainting. The chieftess reached forward hesitantly, and took the head by the hair, turning the once attractive face towards her own slightly green appearance. It was bloated almost beyond any recognition, features set as solid as steel in the horrifyingly characteristic expression of anguish and panic. Chunks of brittle, corn silk colored strands came out in her fist. 

Ayla was not a woman prone to swooning fits, but her vision suddenly sprouted a multitude of wiggling black spots, and she swayed ominously on her booted feet. Fresh air . . . she needed fresh air, and now. The girl's carcass certainly wasn't going anywhere, though perhaps she would walk again, tonight, in Ayla's intensifying nightmares. Flinging herself to the exit, the blonde, muscular cavewoman threw back the flap of leather covering the door, and stumbled into the setting sunlight. Evening embraced its shaken daughter in a cowl of rejuvenatingly cool, light blue air. The sun had just fallen behind the white-tipped mountain peaks, and the higher clouds were still stippled with flaxen shades. She fell to the ground, hugging it with her knees and stilling the churning of her stomach with the sight of warm brown earth. She just needed a moment, to regain her composure, before she was forced to go back in, and heft that- that horrible shell of sloughing skin into her arms. Shouldn't she be used to it by now?

Ten and four dead in seven suns, and she was still without a clue to the cause. Nothing had ever happened like this, nothing . . . her tribe was being murdered by an invisible predator that left no mark, and the only thing Ayla could do was bear the bodies to spiritual safety. It was unbearable for someone so used to being in iron-fisted control. Not anything seemed to block the imperceptible beast, and it struck at random. No charms were effective, no magic, no spear, no sword or arrow caused it to bulk. The valley's curse was upon them, and for the first time in her twenty years, Ayla was completely and utterly helpless.

_ AN: Well, I finally got this out. YAY, ME! Uh, anyway . . ._

Next chapter: The trio from 1000 AD make it to 600 AD! Anna thoughts! Medina! More Magus, more Mirven, and yes . . . some action! Woot, woot!

And Crono's last name I completely made up, cause I needed one. 

Review! 


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